Watching You Sleep
by TrueAwesomeSauce
Summary: Members of the crew observe each other asleep in varied circumstances - a series of short pieces in sundry styles.
1. Watching Bones Sleep

_Watching Bones Sleep_

He reached behind him to pull up the chair that was there, waiting. He had performed that same action so many times, for so many other bedside vigils, for so many injured crewmen before, that he had not even bothered to look. It was there. He knew it.

This time Bones would not come by to stand watch with him a few moments, hand on his shoulder.

This time Bones would not bring over – to slide onto the table beside him - a cup of coffee, a quick meal, something to ease the pain.

This time Bones would not throw him a wry glance as he slipped away, having given the waking crewman a quick squeeze of the hand, a small grin, a word of encouragement.

But even this time, asleep on the bed, Bones was his companion in the long wait.


	2. Watching the Doctor Sleep

_Watching the Doctor Sleep_

He did not watch him sleep. That would be pointless.

Instead, he assured himself that the Doctor was as comfortable as possible; that he was as safe as he, himself, could ensure; that he was, in fact, sleeping.

He bent to adjust the Doctor's position slightly with deliberate hands.

Moving a few paces away, he spared the prone, injured man one last glance, then surveyed the horizon. Nothing moved.

He lifted his communicator, activated it; waited for the response that he knew he could not reasonably expect for hours.


	3. Watching Spock Sleep

_Watching Spock Sleep_

James T Kirk watched his First Officer sleep.

Awake, Spock's eyes dominated his face.

With them closed, the overwhelming intelligence - the unfathomable character - was hidden; and Jim could properly see the face that held them.

Long and pale, it was a strong face - full of muscle, and bone.

The black hair framing it was as severe as ever; the straight black brows as uncompromising.

But it was softer, younger-looking: Relaxed in sleep, all evidence of the man's fierce discipline was smoothed away.

Long black lashes swept his cheeks.

Even his skin seemed perfect, except for two small scars bearing witness to the fact that, given something to defend, Spock would fight.

During the long vigil, he was surprised that Uhura had not come to take her place at this bedside.

Then, he was not surprised at all. The Vulcan was a private man – and had been exposed to public scrutiny for horrendous reasons. She was private, too, in her own way. After one small lapse, the couple had been wary.

Kirk knew that they were together. Scotty, of course knew. He suspected that McCoy had an inkling; though Bones would not want to think it was possible. There had also been a technician in the room at the time… Not knowing either of them - and given what came before, and after - did he remember?

Jim looked again at the pale sleeping face.

It was strange to see Spock look vulnerable.

He wondered that Uhura did not come. Then it occurred to him: Perhaps no one had told her.


	4. Watching Them Sleep : Sulu

_Watching Them Sleep - Sulu_

Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu looked around at the sleeping faces of his men. The temperature was dropping rapidly; he was glad they could rest, and save their strength. But, the sinking in his stomach told him that some might never wake. How had it come to this? How did things go so wrong, so quickly?

A few ore samples, a twig or two, a catalogue of animal life on a world of temperature extremes.

A transporter malfunction, a setting sun.

And, now, death.

Bellham's skin was pinched where it emerged from the thermal blanket; rime frosted Jameson's brows. Murray and Klein huddled together – shipboard rivals made co-conspirators in a creeping battle against the treacherous cold.

His communicator chimed. The signal was weak, and he had no need to whisper: The wind whipped away his words before they could wake his men. Sulu asked for coffee – the Captain laughingly replied.

When the call terminated, Sulu knew that Kirk would be making demands that Engineer Scott would furiously try to answer – as though sheer force of will could overcome physics.

Sulu looked around at the faces of his sleeping men. Now he understood the long hours at Medical bedsides, the solitary midnight vigils: The Captain waited for his men to wake - He alone would welcome them back.


	5. Watching Him Sleep

_Watching Him Sleep_

She rarely had the opportunity to watch him sleep - even though they shared a bed.

At evening's close, she was always the first to succumb.

Often, as she dozed, satisfied, he shifted to survey her, leaving only one arm to still encompass her, one hand relaxed upon her side.

If they stayed awake until she was too tired to think any longer, he would lead her to the bed, settling her in his shielding embrace until sleep staked its superior claim.

Once she slept, he would cautiously disentangle his limbs from hers. He stretched out beside her for his own brief night's repose; then rose to prowl the ship.

She'd often wake in the morning with her head on his chest, and her body twined about his, aware that he had returned solely to give her that gift.

She had seen him unconscious, of course. But in Sickbay, where his lone duty was to heal: She'd fled, unwilling to expose herself - and him - to the curiosity of those who were eager to see her look at him.

But now, he slept.


	6. Watching Her Sleep

_Watching Her Sleep _

With unusual hesitation, Captain James Kirk moved to the side of the biobed.

He stood looking down at the woman who slept there. He wondered whether – if she were conscious – she would be glad he was there, or annoyed.

He reached behind himself to draw up a chair. He slowly sank onto it, his eyes never leaving her face.

He had long known that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

He suspected that she was the most beautiful woman he ever would know.

It still, after all of this time, broke his heart a little that she would never be his.


	7. Watching Nyota Sleep

_Watching Nyota Sleep_

He had, in the course of their time together to date, watched Nyota Uhura sleep on some one thousand four hundred and sixty three different occasions. 'Some' because he was not certain whether seven or eight of those ought not to be further subdivided into distinct instances unto themselves.

He had studied her, observed her, guarded her. He had soothed her, held her, even woken her.

Now, he watched her.

He thought she was beautiful. He had resisted that thought for the many months of their early acquaintance, believing it to be an unworthy one: A purely subjective assessment, of little import. But now he knew it for truth, and acknowledged it. It was an empirical fact: Nyota Uhura was beautiful.

He lifted two fingers and lightly, gently, delicately, traced from her brow, over her cheekbone, along her jaw, to her chin.

With his palm, he brushed her hair back, away from her temple, and allowed his hand to continue its movement, briefly caressing the side of her face before sweeping down to rest, with the faintest pressure possible, along the side of her throat. Before his movement even stilled, her chin was turning slightly toward him, as though seeking to increase the contact. He withdrew his hand, not wishing to disturb her slumbers.

In her sleep, she sighed. Her lips parted, then curved in the slightest of smiles. She sighed again, and the exhale was a word. Only someone with hearing as sensitive as his own would have heard it; but he did not need such hearing to know what she said.

"Spock," she breathed.


	8. Watching McCoy Sleep

_Watching McCoy Sleep_

She awoke with a gasp; Spock was no longer beside her.

But he had been. In the stillness, she could almost feel the weight of his hand on her hip. Her racing heart began to settle: The heat from his body had not yet dissipated from where he had lain, his scent still hung in the air.

He had come home.

But he was no longer beside her.

Unwilling to sleep, had he gone to the Bridge?

Unanswered questions pricked his skin – Had he been drawn to the labs?

Upon his return, he had not stayed long in Medical. Perhaps his injuries were worse than they seemed. Worse than he had let her assume?

She knew he would not lie to her; but she had not asked.

He also knew she worried.

She flipped back the sheets that he had pulled up around her, and pushed her feet over the side of the bed. She stood for a moment, undecided.

Then, she began to dress.

On the Bridge, he would turn in his chair, with a rising brow - if he saw her now.

In the lab, he would hardly notice her – though he would listen if she spoke.

In Medical…

Her feet made their own decision and carried her to Sickbay.

At the doors, she paused a moment to straighten her shoulders. She took, and expelled, one huge breath. Chin high, she marched in.

Once inside the big blue bay, she hesitated, looking around. Many of the beds did hold forms, but none was the one she sought. Nor was the Captain here, sitting by some heedless sleeper. She moved forward – Still, no Spock.

If he were in the smaller wing… No. He was not here. This smaller room was, thankfully, empty: Those this severely injured had at least recovered enough to be moved to the primary bay.

One last look through the main facility and the tension in her spine released. It was almost peaceful, here.

She almost smiled.

She could go to the Bridge. She could check the labs.

She could go back to bed.

The light was still on in McCoy's office. Once again, her feet turned of their own accord, and she found herself at the doorway.

Now, she smiled.

Still in his surgical tunic, Doctor McCoy sat at the desk. He had clearly been reading one of the charts, chin upon his hand, when he fell asleep. The awkward weight had caused his hand to shift - both arms now lay splayed across the customary litter of equipment, data devices, and empty plates - and his head lay heavy upon one forearm.

Uhura slipped into the office. She sat in the chair to one side. Looking at him, she thought briefly about trying to move him to a more comfortable position, but she didn't want to risk waking him.

She curled her legs under her in the chair and studied him. His hair was disheveled – even more than usual – and there was a single grey strand that she was sure had not been there even a few months ago.

The doctor's face was angled toward her, and she could see that the deep furrows worn in his brow by worry, pain, and late bedside nights, had eased.

His eyes – a penetrating hazel, saying so much that his irascible mouth could not – were closed. The skin of his eyelids was slightly red; she was sure that, open, his eyes would be bloodshot from looking at - staring into - insistent screens, troubled faces, tormented bodies.

His lips were barely parted. She had never really seen his mouth peaceful. It was always too busy quirking wryly, frowning in concentration, pressing together out of frustration; too busy spitting out words – or biting them back. His mouth was mobile. But it would look nice peaceful.

The arm that held his head was bent, and at the end of it his hand was, for once, relaxed.

His hands were powerful and capable, the fingers strong and flexible: The doctor had quintessential 'surgeon's hands.'

She had seen him push those fingers through his hair when a decision seemed too large to make for someone else; rub his forehead when there was nothing left to do but wait; scrub at his eyes when surgery was over, and they stung from work – and what they had witnessed.

She had seen those hands comfort someone in pain, rest on the shoulder of one who waited, close around the arm of one who needed to be led. She had seen them run equipment, administer medication, ease suffering in a myriad of ways.

She'd seen the doctor's hands explain – when eyes and mouth and words weren't enough.

She'd seen them close the eyes of the dead.

Watching McCoy sleep, she wanted to find a way to ensure that he had fewer days like this one, and more that found him sleeping peacefully in his own bed. Peace, after all, was why they all had journeyed so far.

Battles leave marks on a man.

Looking at the doctor's hands, she understood: As strong as they were, McCoy's hands too often had to wrestle with death. Too often they were stained with evidence of the fight…

She understood and, in this moment, forgave him all of the unforgivable things he said. She knew he was a good man - for all that he professed to believe things they both knew weren't true.

Maybe when he woke she could tell him.

Maybe when he woke she could thank him.

Maybe when he woke she could then make him understand that this was where he truly belonged, and where he needed to be.

Maybe she would: She'd also seen his face streaked green – and those surgeon's hands dyed emerald.


	9. Watching Chekov Sleep

_Watching Chekov Sleep_

Jim Kirk was feeling old.

He laughed at himself, the smallest bit, for indulging the thought – but there was an element of truth in it.

He had been so used to being the boy-wonder genius juvenile-delinquent-turned-star-pupil-at-the-Academy that his head hurt a little when he was faced with – Well, pretty much everybody he worked with, now, on a daily basis.

Any conversation with his Science Officer made him feel like an idiot. It didn't help that the Vulcan clearly talked slowly a lot of the time and carefully picked words his colleagues would get (with less than perfect success, if truth be told), just so they could keep up. The unintentional eyebrow that Spock employed when the Captain was being particularly dense didn't make Jim feel any smarter, for that matter. But Spock was too courteous to actually use the word "simpleton," and he kept up the polite fiction of intellectual equality with well bred dignity. The fact that he was kind about it just made the situation weirder. Spock had an excuse, Jim conceded: He was of genetically superior stock, even if it pretty much sucked to be Vulcan.

The Chief Engineer was brilliant, of course, in his field. But Jim and Scotty were kindred spirits - and Scotty would get wound up on his own particular rant, and carry Jim along for the ride. Jim already had a bent for the mechanical, and sub-spec'ed in Engineering, so it wasn't all new. Anything he didn't get, he could blame on the accent - and if he looked doubtful, Scott would wind back up… Besides, Scotty's natural expectation that Jim was gonna get it, pretty much ensured that he did, most of the time.

But Chekov? Chekov made him feel old.

A certified genius, the Navigator was the fresh-faced wunderkind of two continents. When his mind was engaged, he was a half-intelligible whirlwind of enthusiasm. His words came fast and thick, and he switched between Russian thought and Standard words in the blink of an eye. He and Spock could converse about astrophysics and tactics at full speed, and Spock would then turn to confirm and interpret what Chekov had said.

The rest of the time, Pavel was a wide-eyed eighteen.

The Captain was aware, from the records, that Chekov's gifts had been recognized early. Special schools, and specialized training, were what he knew. He had probably known few children, and had little experience being one: He had been surrounded by adults, and grown-up expectations, from his youngest days. He still was eager to please - and had the self-awareness to know that he had a natural ability to do so. This confidence stood him in good stead: After initial shock at his boyish appearance, once he spoke, people generally took him at his own estimation, quickly forgetting to count his years.

But, now, as the shuttle carried them shipward, Chekov slept.

Nearly everyone looks younger as he sleeps, Jim knew. But Chekov was young – and he possessed so few that a few years melting away made him look almost childlike.

Watching him sleep, Jim was reminded once again, of the fragility of human life.

Doctor McCoy could dream up a million things that could go wrong out here, point out a million ways they could die. But Bones would fight, to his last breath, to keep any one of them alive.

It was Captain Kirk's job to make sure he didn't have to.

Way too often, Jim Kirk failed miserably.

He was surrounded by the best and brightest. They gave their all - the best days of their youth, most of them – at his command. They had to believe that he knew what he was doing…

He remembered watching Captain Pike, and thinking that Pike had all the answers. There were times that he thought that, since he did not agree 100%, there must just be information Pike possessed of which he, Kirk, was simply not aware.

Then Pike had shown he was human.

In frustration Jim Kirk had challenged Spock's reasoning on the Bridge. The Vulcan was in command – by talent, by training, by experience - rightly so. And Jim, disgraced cadet and former boy-wonder, had challenged his superior's decisions.

In the end, he had been rewarded for it.

He glanced, now, to where Spock sat, firmly focused on the task of piloting the shuttle craft. It was strange to think that, as a starship captain, the ship's own forces were the least of what Kirk had at his command.

Like Spock, like Pike – like all of the ships' commanders going back through the ages – Jim Kirk was making it up as he went along. He did his best, acted according to his conscience, tried to guess right. His best was its best when he trusted in those under him (now there was a humbling thought) and he ignored them at his peril – a peril, then, they all would share.

Jim Kirk looked around at the faces of his crew.

Chekov's curls were flattened against the headrest, and his shoulders hunched a little to keep his head from lolling. Not a single line marked his smooth soft face… Long lashes curled on his pink-and-white cheeks.

On Pavel Chekov's sleeping face, he saw all of the trust and innocence that his own had lost long before it had ever gained its first scar.

Jim Kirk hoped his decisions and actions would not wipe away what he saw there. He hoped he could bring the boy safely home.

Pavel Andreivich slept – and Captain Kirk felt old.


	10. Watching the Captain Sleep

_Watching the Captain Sleep_

Without leaving the Bridge, Commander Spock was capable of remaining alert, with full efficiency, for another 53.92 hours. He considered retaining command of the _Enterprise_ until such time as the Captain returned – or his own diminishing capacity made him unfit - but he reconsidered. At this juncture, such extreme measures were unnecessary; and, given both the current stable situation and the recent eventful one, it was more prudent that he surrender the Command Chair and rest while he could. With his decision made, and determined to complete one last task before retiring, he stood. "Mr. Sulu," he said, "you have the con."

"Aye, sir." The helmsman rose without delay to take the center seat.

Spock headed toward the turbolift, then paused, turning back to deliver one last order. "You will inform me immediately should conditions change for the worse."

"Yes, Commander. Of course," Sulu said with a nod, but Spock had anticipated the prompt affirmative, and was already moving.

Once in the turbolift, he manually entered the code that would deposit him near the ship's Medical Facilities. He appreciated the comparative silence: His days were spent in a welter of noise.

He knew that Doctor McCoy would be eager to engage him in conversation. He had no desire to fall victim to the doctor's frustrated ire. Further, he had already familiarized himself with the latest reports. He had the information he required; he had no need to become embroiled. He knew where he was going: He did not slow as he approached the doors.

Mr. Spock strode into Sickbay, his movements purposeful, as always. McCoy started to rise, to intercept him, but the Commander took no notice. The doctor watched him pass, wondering, once again, what could possibly be going on between those pointy ears.

Spock's momentum decreased as he approached the Captain's bedside. In deference to Kirk's privacy – and the need to maintain the illusion of an infallible chain of command – Doctor McCoy had partially drawn the curtain around the area.

Soundlessly, Spock moved closer. He stood for a moment, looking at the sleeping form of Captain Kirk.

Jim Kirk's injuries were not readily apparent, though Spock was well aware what they had been.

Kirk's body lay almost awkwardly, as though he had tried to shift but had not had the strength to fully rearrange himself.

One fist was half closed: He had fought against encroaching unconsciousness.

His hair was rumpled: In tending to his injuries, the Medical staff had done what was necessary - then left him to recover.

Jim's face was drawn - evidence of the pain he had experienced, and the tension still gripping him at the time of his sedation. Surely, that was on behalf of the crewmen still in jeopardy.

There were dark smudges under his eyes: He had pushed himself beyond the limits of his endurance.

A tiny vertical crease was evident between his brows. To Spock, this was a clear indication that Jim had been worried about the ship.

This last, at least, he could ease. This was, in part, why he had come. He leaned forward, placing one hand on the edge of Jim's bed; then spoke – slowly, calmly, clearly - his quiet voice trustworthy and tranquil. "Captain," he said, "the _Enterprise_ is out of danger, and the crew are safe."

Jim did not stir; but after a few moments, the crease relaxed, smoothed.

Spock watched Jim Kirk sleep for one full second more.

Turning, then, the Vulcan left the Medical Facilities, without a backward glance. His duty was clear. He would maintain his own peak efficiency, and that of the ship. To do anything else was not logical.

Resentfully, McCoy watched him go. The Commander had stayed only a few minutes. Why had he even bothered?


	11. Watching Him Sleep 2

_Watching Him Sleep 2_

Watching him sleep, she thought of how much, and how little, she knew him.

Physically, she knew him intimately.

All of him belonged to her alone. That, she knew for certain.

She knew how, when he woke, the light would play over his body, highlighting and creating shadow as it went.

She knew every interplay of muscle beneath his skin as he moved.

She had explored every millimeter of that surface; had noted how he felt beneath it, how he responded to her faintest touch.

But, for all the time and all the touches - and for all of his bare, unblinking honesty - his mind remained an immeasurable mystery.

She was well aware of the curiosity of those around him. She was grateful that his dignity and reserve kept them from approaching.

Faced with naked truth, there were questions that she could not bring herself to broach.

She could not bear to think that she would betray his confidence, even unknowingly, in some small thing.

There were so few, now, who truly understood – and she felt, sometimes, wholly inadequate to traverse the morass of tradition and philosophy that surrounded him. There were no guides to follow - and he was even more silent now, as though he guarded something precious only he could protect.

He did not put up defenses against her, though; and he seemed to welcome her venturing.

She felt her way through the maze - sometimes with bold assurance, sometimes with hesitation, trepidation.

Then his eyes would meet hers; and she knew - with every fiber of everything that he had ever touched within her - that he understood, and accepted, never expecting her to be anything other than exactly what she was, just at this moment.

He would reach for her; and in his arms she knew, again, that she was part of what he guarded.

Spock was finding his own way through the morass; and - just as for her - for him, there were no guides left.


	12. Watching Sulu Sleep

_Watching Sulu Sleep_

Sulu slept like he did everything else: When he slept, he was totally committed.

Captain Kirk, watching him, was genuinely amused.

The guy seemed so mild-mannered, when you talked to him. It was only when you really listened that you heard the passion behind everything he said.

Pike needed officers with advanced hand-to-hand combat training – and Sulu raised his hand like a little kid in grade school.

Ask him what he did? "Fencing." Just like that.

But, yeah, Sulu could fence. And really, what more needed to be said?

"Can you fly this thing?" Jim Kirk had asked today.

"Sure." Sulu answered.

'Sure' – only that. But put him in the chair, and he came alive. His hands flew with certainty, and his instincts were unerring.

Didn't matter that the ship was God-only-knows-how-old with a half-busted wing and controls labeled in gibberish – Could Sulu fly it? 'Sure.'

Sulu could fly it.

Sulu could fly it until a stray bolt from the ground crashed through the fuselage, shattered the cockpit, and stripped away a bunch of the dials. Then, Sulu could land it.

They waited in the lea of a sandstone cliff for the ship's sensors to locate them. They waited for the transporter to carry them home.

And meanwhile, Sulu slept.


	13. Watching the Vulcan Sleep

_Watching the Vulcan Sleep_

Leonard stood at the side of the bed, shaking his head over the readings displayed there. Its occupant was unconscious – If he had been awake, McCoy could have relieved some of his frustration with a savage remark. As it was, the doctor could only shake his head – and hope.

He hoped he had done the right thing. Hoped he had done enough. Hoped he had read things aright.

The first time Commander Spock had been brought to Sickbay unconscious, he had almost bled to death – while the staff attended to the wounds that, on a Human patient, would have been most urgent.

Before coming aboard, McCoy had never treated a Vulcan before, except one superficial wound, in clinic at the Academy. And in sims, of course, once he had received this assignment.

After Nero's attack, he had dealt, again, with shock and minor injuries.

In theory, he knew all the right facts: Blood pressure, pulse… And copper, of course. (That was a really rude awakening, never-the-less, the first time his hands got wet.) Oh, he knew all the anatomical types, knew where all the organs were… But sims were a far way from practical experience, and a helluva a long way from actual surgical experience.

And so, he also hoped that he could keep the Vulcan alive.

Leonard stood at the side of the bed, watching its occupant sleep: First Officer of the _Enterprise_, a full Commander before he turned 25: The first Vulcan to attend the Academy, and one of its most distinguished graduates.

McCoy's own superior, if it came to that – and member of an endangered species.

When Jim had told him about Spock's assessment of that circumstance, it had made him sick. Angry, too – mad as hell, actually - until Jim played the recording for him, and he could hear those eerie words in Spock's own voice. Then, McCoy was just sick.

He still was: Scared sick.

Leonard wondered when they would all figure out their Chief Medical Officer was a fraud. What the hell was he thinking? - Cruising around the galaxy on a freaking _starship_, for God's sake, acting like he was a doctor and could actually do something to help the people who were out here risking their lives every damned day.

Yeah, the humans were in good hands. He was top-notch with them. Mostly.

But the others? The ship's crew were more than 95% Human, from Earth or the Colonies. Other than that, there were several Neneri, a few Melvarans, two Tellurites (Thank God, down in Engineering), handfuls from a dozen other scattered worlds: Superficially different, sure, but all humanoid. He could manage with them, he supposed.

And one Vulcan.

Half-Vulcan, actually. Whatever that meant.

Once again, Leonard wished he had even a quarter-of-an-hour to talk with Puri. Before warping into the crisis, they had met on a few occasions, spent their time preparing for whatever – and talked about sailing. During the months pre-launch of the _Enterprise_, Puri had bought a boat: He had been looking forward to shore leaves on Earth, with the grandkids.

Wasted words, now - when Leonard could have asked - well, so many things. He scrubbed his hands through his hair, then rubbed his eyes. The near-quiet of Sickbay, after the storm of activity, was having its effect.

"242 beats per minute? Are you fucking kidding me?" That would likely be on the list for Puri.

Well, he had done his best. He was just gonna have to hope that that was good enough.

He headed toward his office. He had some notes to make.

And he wanted to write a list of questions for Commander Spock. In the absence of Puri, Spock was their Vulcan Medical expert, and he figured he ought to pick those mighty brains - while he had the chance - so he'd be better prepared next time.

'_Next _time?'

Fuck, he was tired.


	14. Watching the Vulcan Sleep 2

_Watching the Vulcan Sleep 2_

When the Ship's Chief Surgeon made his way to his office, Captain Kirk was there, hands behind his back, studying some of the charts on the wall. He must have come in while McCoy was watching Spock sleep; and, not wanting to interrupt the doctor at work, had come here to wait.

He turned when the doctor walked in.

McCoy continued on, and collapsed into the chair behind his desk.

Kirk sat on the other, in front.

Leaning both elbows on the desk, Leonard looked down and scrubbed both hands through his hair, and then over his face. His thumbs were in the hollows under his cheekbones, and his fingertips massaged all the furrows in his brow.

They had both been here before.

Jim waited for Bones to speak.

Staring at nothing on the desktop, Leonard let out a huge sigh.

Finally he raised his eyes to Jim's.

Jim's eyebrows went up. So did Bones' – then one corner of each mouth.

Bones slumped back in his chair. "Yeah, he'll make it." He tried to make his voice a little disgruntled, but he was too relieved to pull it off – and they both knew better anyway.

Jim nodded. He leaned back, now, too. "Good job, Bones."

Leonard shook his head. "Honest to God, Jim, I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this."

Jim looked over at him, one eyebrow doing a passable imitation of the Vulcan one.

"Spock's a careful son-of-a-bitch. No one more, really. And tough as hell. But even something small can be iffy. One of these days…" Bones couldn't even complete the thought.

Now Jim was the one shaking his head. He was smiling, just a bit. "Bones, you're doing fine. I trust you. Spock does, too. I know he's not gonna say so, but it's true."

"Besides - " The smile was threatening to turn to a grin; Jim was keeping it back, but barely. "You are a grouchy, stubborn old man. You gotta keep him alive - if only so you have another friend beside me."

McCoy scowled. "I'll 'old man' you, the next time you're in here."

The grin was out, now. "Uh-huh. I know." Kirk rose to his feet, and started to go.

When he was outside the doorway, McCoy called after him. "Jim, get some sleep."

Jim's feet were still carrying him to the Vulcan's bedside, and his gesture turned into a wave of acknowledgement.

Bones leaned back and propped his boots up on the desk. He picked up his padd, flipped on his console, started recording his notes.

Sometime later, he heard Kirk's retreating footsteps, and saw the Captain's form pass from the Medical Facility.

The doctor put aside his paperwork and rose to his feet. He went out to the bed where Spock was still sleeping.

The readings were as crazy as before, but steady. His color was better - if greener was better…

Spock was healing, McCoy was sure of it.

The Vulcan's face still had that curious inward-turned look that defied accurate description.

McCoy watched him sleep.

He thought about what Jim had said. Did Spock trust him? McCoy supposed he must. Now that he was thinking about it, Leonard realized that, given a choice of the doctors here, Spock always came to him.

Were they friends?

With a Vulcan, who could tell?

No, wait.

Honestly, now: Were they friends?

Spock was hardly conversational; but he was as likely to stand silently alongside McCoy as he was anybody else – more likely, in fact – with the exception of Jim, maybe, and Uhura.

Spock didn't joke around, or get chatty, but he had an amazing memory and attention to detail. Sometimes, during a meeting, Spock would refer to something that McCoy had told him, by the by, months ago. Leonard was always surprised that the Vulcan had been listening carefully enough to catch those little things – and file them away, even though they weren't of any real significance…

Several times, now, he had even initiated a discussion – not about things that Leonard might ordinarily think were 'friend' topics – but still, about things that Spock would be likely to think were of interest to the doctor: Research, medical discoveries – once, even, the development of peach hybrids.

Peach hybrids. Just the thought made Leonard smile.

'I'll be damned,' he thought, looking down at the pale solemn face of the ship's Science Officer, 'I've been befriended by a Vulcan.'


	15. Watching Jimmy Sleep

_Watching Jimmy Sleep_

She was amazed when she saw him walk in. It had been what – Four years? Five? And half-way 'cross the Arm.

But there was no mistaking Jim Kirk. The swagger, the grin, the blue eyes – even the look back over his shoulder was just the same.

But the company was not. The Jimmy she'd known was a lone wolf. Oh, back then he may have a friend or two in tow, but they would be jettisoned at the first opportunity, when something better presented itself.

So, surely that had changed: This Kirk came in with the crew of some starship, the lot of them unmistakable, even without the uniforms still worn by several as easily as their skins. She had seen enough flyboys to call 'em when she saw them, and this new Jim Kirk was the same, even if he'd swapped a flannel shirt for the standard Starfleet issue.

A handful broke off from the pack. There was that look back over the shoulder, again; and Jimmy said something to the others that made them nod and laugh, as they headed over to grab some tables by the jukebox pumping out synth in the corner of the bar.

Then Jimmy was coming toward her. As he got closer, she felt again the power of those eyes.

There was a woman with him, two other men, the tall dark shape of a Vulcan male – a rare sight these days, one she'd find intriguing on any ordinary night. But right this moment, she could spare these others no more than a passing glance.

Jim Kirk was coming closer.

She turned half-way; then a little more, so she could rest her elbow on the bar. She took a sip of her drink, acted casual – She willed herself to keep from staring, and thought she made a pretty decent job of it.

But still she could feel him.

Then he was there, beside her; and she suddenly had to breathe.

She turned the rest of the way toward the bar. She looked down, shook her glass, covered her intake of air with the rattle of ice. When she looked up, she saw him in the mirror standing right next to her, almost like they were together.

The bartender was headed their way. Jimmy had glanced back at his dark-haired friend in green (she assumed, to confirm his choice), and nodded at something the woman said.

Then he had turned again to the bar. He opened his mouth to speak, and in that instant their eyes met in the mirror; and time stopped, like it always did when she was fixed with that piercing blue glare.

She saw his brow crinkle a little, the lines deeper than she remembered. His mouth closed, and his hand reached up to rest on the bar. In the mirror she saw his body moving – when she turned her head, he was facing her, not-quite-recognition in his eyes.

Still there was something there, some spark, and it was enough to make her speak. "Hello, Jim." She was amazed by how steady her voice was. She might just do this every day.

She saw his brows come together before they smoothed back out, and he was speaking, too. "Angela?" His hand came down on her wrist for a second, and she was glad she hadn't let go her glass.

The bartender spoke up then, and Jimmy placed an order more complicated than seemed necessary for five.

Then Jim's hand was on her elbow. She looked at their shared reflection and saw it there. It looked good. She could feel the slight warmth of his hand through her blouse and it felt good, too.

When her eyes moved up, Jim's were meeting those of the Vulcan, whose nod was almost too small to see. She would have been intrigued, but Jimmy's eyes in the mirror were calling hers again.

She missed the slide of inscrutable dark eyes over to her - and back to the man beside her.

Jim was leaning on the bar, now, both elbows. He seemed to be waiting for something, to speak.

His friends were talking and a couple of them laughed. "Ain't that right, Jim?" asked the drawling voice of the man in green, but he didn't seem to expect an answer, or be surprised when none came.

When their order arrived, the Vulcan paid, and reached to carry a tray that seemed impossibly full. Before he could take it, Jim pulled two drinks from the middle and murmured something like, "Thanks."

Then the tray and Jim's friends were gone, and he was turning toward her with a smile and a glass in each hand. "Still like gin-and-tonic?" he asked. He didn't wait for her answer before leaning in close and moving one of the glasses toward the curling bar mat.

Her hand met his, and closed around it only an inch or two from her breast. "Yes," she said, "That'd be great."

In the hours before dawn, she rolled up on one elbow, and looked at the man sprawled in her bed. She wanted to watch him sleep: She wanted to shore up her memories with fresh pictures. He had changed, but was the same, too; and she figured that in a year or two the images she had of him would blur convincingly together.

He was just as pretty and as full of fight as he used to be; but he was also different, in a way that was hard to explain.

His body had been strong and tough, always. Now it was disciplined, even controlled – tempered, maybe, like a weapon. He had learned a lot, and enjoyed the power he wielded; but he let go with the same abandon, and she was happy to hurl herself, with him, over the edge.

Up close there were more scars, not just on his body, but on his face also. And yes, the crinkles were deeper. But they looked good on him, too, like he'd earned them.

His skin was paler, more even, without the tell-tale ruddiness of an Iowa farmers' tan, and though it seemed softer, smoother, she supposed that came from working in the controlled environment of a ship: His hands were still rough; and more scars - both fresh and healed - proved his job, whatever it may be, now, was full of its own kind of hazards.

His eyes were as brilliant blue – that was obvious – and the glare as electric. The assurance was still in them, but was supported now by a self-confidence that was more unshakable than the assurance ever had been. There was a happiness – a contentment, really – that had never been there before: That was all new. She was glad she got to see that - really glad – and she wondered if, after tonight, something in his morning smile would be even brighter for a while…

There was still pain, in his eyes, and loneliness. She thought maybe the pain was morphing into mercy, or compassion. But buried beneath a layer of bravado, the loneliness - bitter and bone-deep - was just the same.

He was both tougher and gentler than he'd been back then, as though he'd gone through times that had him staring down death, but had discovered the value of life in the process.

She was sure he was no longer the solitary creature she had taken in, for mutual comfort, on cold nights in the way-back-when.

Oh, he'd been quick enough to discard the extra company last evening - He had parted from his friends with laughing good-nights. But she had no illusions that he'd suddenly take the notion to stay with her for days at a time.

In the morning Jimmy would wake and laugh, and say good-bye. He might even give her a few more memories.

But he wouldn't give her any promises.

Jim Kirk had somewhere else to be.


	16. Watching Jim Kirk Sleep

_Watching Jim Kirk Sleep_

He was restless.

She watched him, gently; available in case he wished to speak. He said nothing; but after a minute, he set aside his work. Rising to his feet, he stood a moment, before deliberately beginning to pace.

The day had been a hectic one, a busy one, for her; and she had hoped to find peace in his usual serenity.

But serenity was not to be found here. He paced, and his strides were long, eating up the floor.

The day, for him, had been worse. She knew this because he would not speak of it. She knew this because she had heard, if only the smallest amount.

Watching him, she considered the bits and pieces she had gathered as the day progressed – His initial request, promptly relayed, for data from the Science Section; the frantic appeals from the Security team, and the answer as more men went down; his cool level voice, as he called for Doctor McCoy.

Yes, his day had certainly been worse.

He had come to the Bridge after Transport, with his face still smudged and a thick streak of something - surely not human blood – across his bicep. He issued orders; and his calm, unhurried voice convinced them all that it was going to be fine.

It was all going to be fine.

She watched him, gently, and at the far wall, he turned. He hesitated, and his eyes met hers.

She found herself rising to her feet.

She went to him, and as her arms encircled his body, his hands came up to rest on her back. A moment later she could feel each of his long fingers, pressing her gently into greater contact with his form. She turned her cheek to rest against his chest, felt his chin come down on the top of her head.

She held him until she could feel the restless shudder begin again in his bones – She leaned away to look up into his face; and smiled, just a little, in understanding, or sympathy. "I don't think either of us feels much like sleeping tonight."

His eyes rested, unmoving, on her face, and she thought maybe he wondered what question she had answered. She reached up to kiss him, hand on his neck - his chin lowered in response.

His eyes closed.

When at last she pulled away, his head remained bowed; now, perhaps, he had a touch of peace - but no serenity, here.

Her arms tightened around him then released; and he gazed at her once more, still silent - as he too often seemed to be.

"Spock," she said, with one last caress, one last kiss, "You should go to the Bridge. I'll go to Sickbay, and watch over Jim."


	17. Watching Nyota Sleep 2

_Watching Nyota Sleep 2_

He was alone: Peace, serenity, solitude.

In the silence, he heard her calling for him. She was calling, calling in the distance.

She sounded very far away – so anxious, lost.

He moved toward her.

Once his motion started, he forgot – ignored - lifelong habits of moving slowly for the comfort of others. No others mattered: She needed him.

He came to where she was: He opened his eyes.

Turning to look at her, he saw the curtain drawn around them. He was in the Medical bay. It was clearly the middle of ship's night.

Nyota slept in the chair beside his bed: She had braved the inquisitive to come to him.

She had been leaning toward him when she fell asleep – arm propped on the bed, head cradled in its crook - one hand extended, not quite touching his side.

He watched her sleep.

Carefully, so that he would not wake her, he slid his hand over the bedclothes toward her.

Taking her hand in his, he lifted it the few inches toward his heart. He gently placed it there, covering it with his own. He interlaced his fingers with hers.

Now, he would sleep.

They were together: Peace, serenity, belonging.


	18. Watching the Captain Sleep 2

_Watching the Captain Sleep 2_

When the Captain did not answer the second signal announcing his arrival, Commander Spock debated the wisdom of letting himself in.

The Captain had requested that he come at this time.

But now he did not answer. Perhaps he had been called away and would return in a moment. Perhaps he had changed his mind.

In the past, the Captain had repeatedly said, "Hey, Spock, you're always welcome to come right on in." He seemed sincere. And yet, circumstances do change.

Spock hesitated for four more seconds, before reaching up one hand to enter his authorization code.

When the door slid open, the Vulcan stepped soundlessly inside.

The desktop was empty, the chair pushed back. The console was still activated; a quiet beeping indicated that it was awaiting its next instruction.

The overhead lights were on.

Spock turned.

The Captain lay asleep on his bed.

Apparently, Kirk had flung himself down: His position looked to be a very awkward and uncomfortable one. A single arm was thrown over his face so that the elbow shielded his eyes from the light.

He was dressed in Starfleet black – His gold uniform shirt appeared to have been hastily discarded: It lay crumpled on the floor.

A thick old-fashioned book lay open next to him. The splaying of the pages threatened the integrity of its hand-sewn spine. A single slip of paper had fallen to the floor beside the bed, and lay neglected, half in shadow.

The volume was too precious to risk the further damage that might befall it should the Captain shift, as he most certainly would, in his sleep. Spock reached out and carefully lifted it away from the Captain's sleeping body. Bending, he picked up the slip of paper and slid it to rest securely in the crease between the open pages of the book. Closing the volume, then, he placed it on the shelf near the Captain's head, exactly where a seeking hand would naturally reach.

He bent to pick up the tunic. With well-practiced movements, he folded it; then placed it atop the nearby bureau.

A few steps took him to the desk: He keyed in a belaying command, then turned off the computer. After lifting the chair into its customary place, he turned out the lights.

Then, he moved toward the exit. Before activating the door control, he glanced back to ascertain that his actions had not disturbed the Captain's slumbers.

They had not.

Satisfied, Spock tapped the command that would allow his egress.

The heedless sleeper dreamed on.


	19. Watching Scotty Sleep

_Watching Scotty Sleep _

Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott was sleeping. Really, that was not unusual. The Engineer had the capacity to fall asleep any time or anywhere he was able to achieve a more-or-less horizontal position.

The only place you could be sure he would not fall asleep was on the Bridge of the ship – and, well, that was really only guaranteed if Scotty were occupying the center seat, in actual command at the moment. There, he would be very focused.

Other than that, all bets were off.

Jim Kirk had seen Scott asleep in each section of Engineering, on the observation decks, in a corridor or two, and in every single one of the Rec Rooms.

He had slept in biobeds – and next to them.

He would arrive a few minutes early for briefings, and nap right up until the last possible second. He seemed to have a sixth sense that told him when Jim and Spock were going to open their mouths…

For a while now, since the real Deep Space work started, Scott favoured the Computer Bays, and random corners of various labs. Jim found this hysterical – Scotty spent months snoozing where the Vulcan would be most likely to run across him at any second.

Captain Kirk kept expecting Spock to say something: His First Officer was the model of efficiency, and had little patience for indolence of the sort thus displayed.

But Spock never said a word.

Then Jim went down to Astrophysics with Chekov to see something that the Science Officer had been working on. While Spock was talking, Scotty came in to listen, and seated himself on the floor, with his back against the counter.

When Jim and Chekov started asking questions, Scotty gradually shifted to a more comfortable position; and when the technician started in, Scott went to sleep. Sounds of breathing – a very gentle snore - soon filled the air.

Watching him out of the corner of his eye, Jim was amused. He waited with gleeful anticipation for Spock to notice: Because, really? This was gonna be awesome. And Jim had a front row seat.

The technician talked, and Spock went soundlessly about his business. After a few minutes, he came around the counter to retrieve equipment stored nearby. The Science Officer stepped over Scott's prone body, picked up the device he required, and returned, stepping back over the sleeping form. His movements were matter-of-fact; his face, as expressionless as ever.

Jim was astounded; he was speechless. He was so surprised that he simply didn't know what to say - and so he said nothing.

As the conversation went on around the silent Captain, Spock corrected the technician on an obscure point.

A second later, a burring voice rose from near the floor. "Are you certain about that, Mr. Spock?"

"Yes, Mr. Scott, I am. I have proven this point myself. If you would care to consult -" the serene Vulcan voice went on, but since Captain Kirk had no desire to consult Mr. Spock's Astrophysics Department Laboratory Report Number Whatever of Stardate When, he quit listening.

Jim glanced down to where his Engineer still lay on the floor. Scott's eyes were closed and his hands were still tucked under his head. He did not appear to have moved – Yet he most definitely was conversing with Spock: His lips were moving, even if what he said was unintelligible. Soon, he shifted a little; then sat up. He glanced up to see the Captain looking at him. He nodded, a little – an acknowledgement – but his focus remained on the Science Officer's observations.

After that, the Captain returned to the Bridge. When Chekov and Spock emerged from the turbolift a short time later, Jim Kirk gestured to the latter. "Commander. A moment, if you will…?"

The First Officer moved to stand in his customary position at the Captain's side. When Jim leaned over, so that his words would not be overheard, Spock stepped closer, and tilted his head a little.

His eyes were fixed on Kirk's face. He waited for the Captain to speak.

Jim took a second to formulate a sentence: This situation was totally unprecedented, and he thought he should be careful. After a moment, he turned a bit, so that his voice would not drift forward to the two men seated in front of him: His words were meant for Vulcan ears alone. He spoke very nearly in a whisper, "Mr. Spock, I am becoming somewhat concerned by an apparent lack of discipline among some of the officers." He looked up to see how the other was taking this.

Spock looked interested, but he didn't look anticipatory. He was waiting for the Captain to elaborate.

Jim wasn't sure what he should say. Frankly, this was a conversation he never expected to be having. "Not you, personally, of course." The compliment was acknowledged with a slight bow that only a Vulcan could pull off convincingly. "But today I noted that Mr. Scott…" He couldn't really finish this sentence with 'was lying around underfoot like a Golden Retriever,' could he? He trailed off.

Surprisingly, Spock picked up the conversational slack. "Mr. Scott is an extremely effective officer."

"He is?" Oh, God. He hoped that he didn't sound as dumbfounded as he felt.

Spock had averted his eyes. Jim cleared his throat a little.

Spock's nod was masterful. It distracted Jim completely from his embarrassment.

"Indeed."

The man was a born diplomat.

"Mr. Scott's methods may, at times, be unconventional – a result, I believe, of both temperament, and restrictions externally imposed by conditions inherent in his field of study - as well as subsequent experiences, no doubt - but his department consistently remains one of the most efficient on this vessel. Also, he is quite innovative; and inspires creative thinking, discipline, and loyalty among those with whom he serves."

For a non-technical subject, it was a pretty long speech for Spock - particularly since the subject was, in fact, another sentient being. Spock hated talking about people.

Jim was impressed.

Spock's unprecedented ability to read Jim remained unchallenged: He had glanced at the Captain's face, and spoke again, in the same confidential undertone. "I could go on – but I assure you, sir, that I have no concerns about Mr. Scott's tenure." Spock straightened slightly – a subtle Vulcan indication that, unless further questions were raised, he had nothing further to say.

Kirk took the hint. He spoke in a more normal tone of voice. "Thank you, Mr. Spock."

Spock nodded.

Both of them shifted a little, so that they were looking out the view screen, side-by-side. To anyone on the Bridge who happened to be paying attention, the message was clear: The conference was over.

Jim Kirk could not speak the Vulcan language, but he was beginning to understand Vulcan: Spock liked Scott; he thought he was good for the ship, and had enough talent to excuse being a little eccentric.

Jim smiled to himself. It was an assessment any one of them could only hope to deserve.

The Captain would not repeat his First Officer's words, but on the strength of them, he went looking for Scott with a bottle in hand, once his shift was over.

Jim Kirk quickly located his quarry: His Chief Engineer was stretched out more-or-less horizontally across five chairs in the middle of the Officers' Mess. Though some dozen or more people were already here, Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott was sleeping.

Kirk thought about waking him; then decided to just let him lie. There was a small table near his head, and a few more chairs were grouped conveniently nearby. It appeared to be as comfortable a place as any, and maybe Scott would wake soon, on his own.

Jim grabbed a couple of glasses before sitting down. He poured a drink for himself, and one for Scott, and softly plunked the bottle on the table. He nudged another chair into a slightly better position, then leaned back and put his feet up. He propped one elbow on the table, and simply sat for a while, watching, as others arrived.

Hannity came in with Kyle.

Jim was often surprised how much the Bridge Crew would stick together, even when their shifts were over. When on duty they did spend a lot of time together, but it was not as though they spent a lot of time socializing. He decided that just sharing common experiences from a common vantage point must be enough…

Uhura came in chatting animatedly with Chekov. Sulu followed, smiling a little. The Helmsman gave a small wave to the Captain, but didn't interrupt his reverie… The three of them went to a large empty table near the wall. It would be filled, soon, he expected; but he knew they'd make room if he came with a tray. Jim could still hear their voices, and Uhura's laughter – He had to smile, himself.

Hickerson from Security came in with Timkins, from Engineering. Watching them, Jim wondered what it would be like to wear red instead of gold. What was it like to work in another part of the ship – Did they resent being away from the action? Or did they think that they were where the action was?

Jim remembered his own days studying for his sub-spec: The Engineering professors were dedicated and as fiercely protective of their own as tigers were of their cubs. Maybe that's why the graduates of that program were so tightly-knit. Or, maybe, just like the Bridge Crew, common experiences and common adversity bonded them together.

Jim thought ruefully of labs still crowded at 3 am, when he was trying to finish his third-semester project. He recalled half-listening as he dozed between lectures, in case there was something he needed to know. He remembered grabbing at sleep ten minutes at a time, because he never knew when he'd receive the call that an "emergency' had been declared – or, no less urgent, the equipment he'd wait-listed for was finally available

The Captain glanced over at the sleeping engineer. Jim suspected that - after the excitement of Starfleet training, with full-time access to the latest information and a lab to test his work - Delta Vega had been an absolute hell. Was that what Spock meant by 'subsequent experiences'?

Jim raised his glass and clinked it softly against the one he had poured for Scott. Very quietly he said, "Here's to Spock's recommendation."

He had just put the glass to his lips, and started to feel the first fire, when he heard the burring voice. "A very perceptive man, Mr. Spock."

Jim finished the sip without spitting or choking.

He glanced over at Scott. The engineer's eyes hadn't opened, but he was definitely talking: His lips were moving. "Interesting, too. Full of ideas."

Jim managed to put the glass down without a drop spilled. He was probably staring, now.

He must have made some noise, because Scotty opened his eyes and tilted his head back so that he could look at his Captain's face. "Your Mister Spock is like a magnet for everything interesting that happens on this ship. You know that, right?"

When Jim didn't reply, Scott just shook his head a little, then closed his eyes. "You mark my words, Captain. I've spent a lot of time in that man's company - so have you, for that matter - and that's where all the excitement is."

Jim took another sip, leaning back to gaze at the ceiling. He took another - and while he was feeling the always-surprising burn, he heard the door whoosh again. Afterward, the room seemed just a little louder, a little more crowded; the air, a little more electrically charged.

He looked over. Commander Spock had arrived alone, and was standing just inside the doorway, surveying the room quietly; before heading over to the table where Hannity, Kyle, Sulu and Chekov were talking – where Uhura was waiting.

Jim dropped his feet, and picked up his drink once more. He heard Uhura greet Spock, and the Vulcan's calm reply.

Scotty had swung his feet to the floor, and had picked up his, too. "Lovely voice."

Jim looked over at Scott, who waved his glass a bit - Jim followed his glance - It was obvious who he meant. "Distinctive."

When he looked back, Scotty's eyes were laughing at him over the rim of the glass. "Not like yours, of course, Captain, but still… Makes you want to pay attention, doesn't it - just in case it says something you might want to hear?"

After another sip, Scotty drank off the rest of his glass with a single swallow, and saluted his Captain with the empty.

When Jim did the same, Scotty pushed himself to his feet.

Grinning, Jim stood, too. "No, Mr. Scott, I think you're wrong." The other's surprised face made him laugh, and he clapped his friend on the back, before turning to grab the bottle he'd left on the table. As they made their way over to the others, he said, "You're thinking like an engineer." He slowed, and Scotty matched his pace. He dropped his voice: "Spock's a scientist, a Vulcan: Not a magnet, a catalyst."


	20. Watching Jim Kirk Sleep 2

_Watching Jim Kirk Sleep 3_

'Captain's Privilege, my ass,' she thought, watching Jim Kirk sleep.

Yes, this mission should have been completely routine; and when Spock conducted his briefing, it all sounded so easy. But that was when the Science Officer planned to do the work himself.

She closed her eyes and imagined him standing in the Briefing Room, his voice clear and serene. He knew exactly what needed to be done, and so did she. He had chosen a security officer who also had technical experience that would prove helpful with the work.

As always, Spock's suggestions were well-thought-out, impartial - logical.

It was beyond her what made the Captain suddenly stand and say, "Well, Mr. Spock, that sounds great. Nothing I can't handle there." And before Spock could speak, he had grinned and shrugged and said "Seems like a nice day for a hike: Captain's Privilege, right?"

And Spock had said nothing. She could tell there were things that he wanted to say, lots of them. He had looked into her eyes for a long moment, before turning to Jim and calmly revising the plan.

Maybe Jim really did just want to get off the ship for a bit: He chose to take all of the readings and gather samples first, before getting down to the mission at hand. She was almost glad that Spock wasn't here for that part – Jim's attitude would have made him crazy.

On the other hand, with Jim talking to Scott and Spock on the ship, retrofitting the relay beacons had taken about four times as long as it would have done if she and Spock had just been working together directly.

And even that would have been fine, she supposed - except that during the extra time, the ship had had to move off. At least Spock was able to get that message through to her before communications were cut off by rising interference.

Now it was just a matter of waiting.

She knew that if things got desperate she could use one of the beacons to signal – as long as Jim didn't try to help her. At that, she had to laugh, a little. And laughing a little made her want to kick him a whole lot less.

She leaned back against a rock and watched Jim Kirk sleep.


	21. Watching Her Sleep 2

_Watching Her Sleep 2_

The solitary figure stood at the bedside, very silent and absolutely still.

The doctor came to stand at that stiff shoulder, in unconscious imitation of the other's formality.

The watcher took no notice.

McCoy spoke, his voice almost gentle: "It's been a long day. You should get some sleep."

Eyes flicked to him, just for an instant; then back to the bed. There was no further response.

After a few seconds, Leonard deliberately reached out, and carefully placed one hand on the rigid back.

Before he could reconsider the words, he said, "The next shift will be arriving soon, Commander. I'll stay."

Dark eyes slid over to meet his.

He hoped he wasn't saying too much. "She won't wake alone. I promise."

Those eyes shifted again to rest on the sleeper.

A moment passed. Leonard could feel the tiniest lessening of tightness under his palm. He dropped his hand.

His companion nodded, twice: Motion barely visible, but expressing, none the less, acknowledgement – and gratitude.

As the upright figure turned and moved away, Leonard said softly, "Don't worry."

But the other had gone.


	22. Watching Miss Uhura Sleep

_Watching Miss Uhura Sleep_

Sitting in the sun, watching her sleep, he thought he understood what made her smile so. His glimpse of her dream had been faint - and tomorrow he would do his best to forget - but just for this moment, he knew.

Pavel Andreivich had seen them together.

He hadn't meant to, and he would take it back if he could: He was aware he was not meant to see them.

The planet was so beautiful, and leaving the others near the small shoreleave village, he had walked a little way into the forest. He climbed a tree to be able to look through the branches across the spreading gold-and-green canopy of the sunlit valley beneath. This spot was perfect; and the niche in the tree seemed formed to hold him. He appreciated the lumpy solid feel of trunk and branches around him and the scratching of the rough black bark, so different from the clean lines and smooth textures of the ship. He was half dozing, listening to leaves in the breeze and the rustle of small animals, the beatings of wings and calling of birds, when he heard them talking as they approached through the clearing below.

It was Commander Spock's voice that first drew his attention. The Vulcan Science Officer was Chekov's good friend. He knew that would sound funny to anyone he tried to tell, but the Commander listened to him, and understood him – not just what he said, but what he meant, as well – and did not mock him for his youth or inexperience. Sometimes, Pavel thought the Commander must be Russian: They both spoke the same language.

As First Officer, Commander Spock was Pavel's superior. In this capacity, it was easy to think of him as a particularly demanding professor: He knew what you could do, and expected your best, always; but he was fair, and dispassionate.

Chekov admired Commander Spock. He liked him.

So when he heard Mr. Spock speaking, he was interested. And he closed his eyes, and listened.

At first the words were unintelligible. He realized then that they were not in Standard - The language was not familiar to him at all.

"_Goh ma etek zam-wak._ _Vun-abuifis-tor nash-veh na'yel-hali._ _Ak'vun nam-tor fi'ar'kadan,"_ the Commander's voice said. Hearing it, Chekov suddenly understood that these were the sounds that this voice was designed to make. He was glad for the Commander. Chekov knew what it was like to not be able to use his native tongue: He could talk, yes, but not really express himself… He was glad that there was someone to whom the Commander could speak in Vulcan, even if only for a while.

People often thought the Commander's voice was cold, or distant, or even stilted; but really, the Commander's voice was Vulcan – even when he spoke in Klingon or Andorian, or Standard. The Commander was fluent in all of them and more; Chekov was sure that he thought completely in these other languages (most unlike Chekov who still translated from Russian, much of the time, even sometimes about his work) and when he spoke, he was like one born to it - but Mr. Spock's thought processes, themselves, remained logical, Vulcan. It was very interesting.

Speaking his native language, Spock's voice melted and flowed. "_Dungau bekan Khart-lan nash-veh. Dungi-tishau nash-veh kuv hafau odu - eh tizh-tor wak t'odu fi'ish-panu."_

"_Lau nash-veh – ri k'odu - uf,_" answered a second voice, dreamy and sweet. This voice also was familiar, though the soft tone most certainly was not: Lieutenant Uhura was walking in the woods with Commander Spock, speaking Vulcan like a woman in love.

Chekov peered down through the tree-branches. The two of them had moved to a spot almost beneath him, just a short distance away, and were standing very close together. The Commander stood as he usually did, straight and tall: Chekov had a clear view of his hands clasped behind his back.

The Lieutenant was smiling up at him. Chekov could see her face perfectly.

Then Miss Uhura looked around. "_Nam-tor vaksurik la – ha_."

She looked back up at the man beside her, the question present in her raised brows.

The Commander nodded; his hands had relaxed to his side, and his tone, when he spoke, was very gentle. "_Ha – Niota – ma'vaksurik_." His head was bowed slightly.

The look on Miss Uhura's face said that she was gazing into his eyes – and enjoying what she saw there.

"_Wi ri ovsotuhlik dva-tor nash-veh ta vesht nahp-tor odu ta vesht dungi-nam-tor nash-veh kesik tal-tor semrik aifa laplar_." Mr. Spock's voice was light: It seemed almost - just the tiniest amount - to be teasing her.

Uhura's answering smile was dazzling. Chekov admired her radiant expression right up until the moment he realized one Vulcan hand had risen to caress her cheek - Then the view was obscured by a tilting dark head.

Pavel Andreivich hastily looked away.

Commander Spock was kissing Lieutenant Uhura.

After a long moment of silence, Pavel risked another glance – just to assure himself that he had not fallen out of the tree and suffered a concussion without noticing…

Commander Spock's back was no longer stiff and unyielding: He was bent a little, and though Chekov could not see them, it was obvious that his arms were around Miss Uhura's body; hers were around his neck, the fingers of one hand trailing over his skin.

Commander Spock was, most certainly, kissing Lieutenant Uhura.

Lieutenant Uhura was neither surprised nor offended that he would choose to do so: That was equally obvious.

Chekov looked out across the valley. He was very comfortable, cradled here by the tree, and he was in no hurry to climb down. He would focus on the clouds, and the golden treetops; listen only to the birds and the wind in the branches.

Too short a time later – Pavel was sure that there was regret in the fluid voice that drew his attention downward once more – Commander Spock spoke. "_I'vun-hal-tor - Niota – bolayatik nam-tor pulayaya t'nash-veh fi'nel-tash-svitan_."

The Lieutenant nodded; her lower lip caught, just for a second, between her teeth. Then she reached up, and, with her hands linked behind his head, brought the Commander down for one protracted kiss. They had turned a little, and Chekov saw them now almost in profile – He could see Spock's long fingers flex across her lower back, pulling her body into his.

Pavel looked up, and studied one of the golden leaves dancing before his eyes.

When their kiss broke, Uhura spoke. _"Sarlah,_" she said. She moved back,taking one of Spock's hands in hers. Together, they turned and started toward the village.

After only a few steps, they separated by an arm's length; and the Commander's hands returned, once again, to rest behind him.

Seeing that - watching the Commander's slow measured paces, as he followed Lieutenant Uhura - Chekov felt a little sorry for the two of them. He thought maybe Commander Spock would have preferred to walk hand-in-hand back to the village with his lady. Maybe she would have liked to have taken his arm…

After they left, Chekov carefully shifted his position in the tree. It was very comfortable, here, and peaceful. He believed he could easily go to sleep.

When he thought enough time had passed, he climbed down from the tree. He looked around indecisively for a moment, then picked his way down into the valley. He thought it would be good to return to the village by a different path than the others'.

His walk was very pleasant - The planet did seem almost magical… As he headed back, he amused himself by recounting stories from his childhood of mystical glades and spell-bound dream-folk. Though he did not see any feathers, he imagined he heard the calling of the жар-пти́ца.

Back in the little town, Chekov found a shop where he could purchase a refreshing drink. Emerging into the village square, he carried it toward one of the stone benches warmed by the afternoon sun. He sat on the first one of an empty pair, and took a long sip. It was very good; it reminded him of the sekanjabin he had had during a trip when he was young. The taste only added to his nostalgia.

He leaned back and glanced around him. Other members of the crew, still on shoreleave, were here and there, a few heading into or out of the shops, a few leaning against the pillars of the porticos, talking. Several of the other benches were occupied, and Chekov was glad he had found one away, a bit, from the others.

Looking again, he saw he was mistaken: The other bench was not empty at all. There was a slender figure, there, curled up in its crook. Her head was leaned against the back of the bench, her cheek padded by one slim hand. Her smile was gentle, peaceful – beautiful - but the merest shadow of an earlier one. Her eyes were closed: Lieutenant Uhura was sleeping.

Chekov gazed at her for a few more moments, before looking away and taking another long sip of his drink. He curled up in the crook of the bench, and leaned his head back so that he could idly watch the clouds drift by behind thatched rooftops and gold-and-black branches. He would call the ship soon, to return to a waking world of clean lines and smooth textures, of measured steps and cool distant voices - but not just yet.

* * *

sssssssss

* * *

translations

Do you really want translations?

Really?

Chekov didn't need 'em, are you sure you do?

Well, alrighty, then.

Russian:

жар-пти́ца (_zhar-ptitsa_) – firebird

Vulcan (all translated idiomatically):

"We have only a little time. I must transport up to the (star)ship. Soon, I have to be at work," Spock said, "The Captain will be awaiting me. It will please me if you stay, and enjoy your time on this world."

"How can I, without you?" Uhura answered. Then, "It is beautiful here, isn't it?"

Gently: "Yes, Nyota, extremely beautiful." Teasingly: "Yet I do not entirely believe that you thought that I would be likely to find these trees fascinating."

"I must go now, Nyota," he said (perhaps reluctantly?). "My presence is required on the Bridge."

"Come," she said.


	23. Watching Jimmy Sleep 2

_Watching Jimmy Sleep 2_

She almost didn't see him when he walked in. Too funny to think that now, as he slept with abandon on the bed they'd spent all night wrecking.

But it was true.

The bar was dim. As the group of them paused at the entrance, the light brushed along the muted edges of their clothes: Most of them wore the faded colors of well-worn favorites, and they blended together into just another group of people.

There was a woman in cherry red - that, she saw.

And, a little apart - outlined in clear, sharp blue - a tall young man with a nerdy haircut and a drink-of-water form. He was dark, very dark: His black hair gleamed blue, too. Even in the uniform, he exuded animal grace, and power. Sex on legs, that one, she thought.

With fluid movements he stepped forward, and the light shone on him more clearly. He turned his head a little to listen to words spoken by the tallest in the midst of the group. The light shifted over upswept brows, elongated ears. She saw then he was Alien. She was still tempted - really tempted - and she thought, for a moment, of going closer just to touch him, to brush against him and maybe see…

But his face was closed and secret - full of power, too. As young as he was, it still showed a will that would over-master any hunger that that muscled, lean body might have.

What a waste.

Well, he could loosen up, she thought, once he got a few drinks in him. Maybe she'd grab him later, and see whether her taste had a chance to be satisfied, her thirst to be quenched.

But meanwhile? There was a good band and the rest of that blended group.


	24. Watching Jim Kirk Sleep 3

_Watching Jim Kirk Sleep 2_

Watching him sleep, she wondered when they had begun to understand one another. When had this friendship begun?

It had certainly not been there in the beginning.

Not the night they met: He seemed like he might be fun. But he was, most definitely, not her type.

After that had come amusement, as he tried to gain her attention; irritation, at his easy arrogance; frustration, at his false superiority; disdain, as he dismissed wiser heads than his own.

But now, there was this friendship.

She could think of decisive moments, here or there, after she had been convinced to give him the benefit of the doubt: An impulsive question, a thoughtful silence, a reasoned answer, a look of real comprehension, a nod of understanding. Put together, over time, they formed a cogent argument in favor of the idea that there might be more to Jim Kirk than immediately met the eye.

Once that conclusion was reached, he became more than the man who sat in the center seat, and whose words were the ones they followed. He became the man whose smile was the one they looked for, as surely as the Commander's was the nod they needed.

She never thought she'd learn to respect him - even as she grew to like him, in spite of all her good sense. But as her appreciation – affection - for him grew, she found herself calling him 'Captain,' even in those times when 'Jim' was enough.

Now, when the day was over, and they gathered together – or when shoreleave came, and they left the ship – Jim was one whose easy friendship made sense.

Sometimes, on a shoreleave evening, they would go to a bar, to drink and dance – Nyota Uhura and Captain Kirk, the two whose hearts were still Up There.


	25. Watching Uhura Sleep

_Watching Uhura Sleep _

He really did not mean to watch her sleep.

The fact that he was still here, doing so, was strictly accidental, right?

They had beamed down, conducted their readings, taken some samples; upgraded the beacons. It was all routine - and in the briefing, Spock made it all sound so easy.

As Science Officer, the Vulcan had originally been slated to go; but at the last minute, Jim had changed the composition of the landing party, himself.

He had had some engineering experience, Spock knew that. And Spock had made no demur - had merely looked from Uhura back to his Captain - and conducted a revised briefing.

So it looked to be a great day.

Then, before communication was cut off, they were informed that the ship would have to move away. Whatever the problem was, Kirk knew Spock would fix it. Spock always fixed it.

And meanwhile, they were down here on this planet.

At least Jim had been smart enough to bring along the burly young tech whom the Science Officer had recommended – Without him, Jim admitted, this would probably look bad…

The young man was some distance away, guarding their position. If he squinted, Kirk could make him out against the darkening sky.

Uhura shifted, a little, in her sleep; and Jim found his eyes drawn to her again.

Lieutenant Uhura was beautiful. Even if you looked at just her nose, or just her lips – just her eyes - she was beautiful. Even when she was thoroughly pissed at him - even when she was asleep on the rough ground at the end of a very long day - she was beautiful.

There was just something about her - something that he simply couldn't explain… In the 3 years 193 days since he had met her, that indescribable something had turned her into the one woman against whom all others were compared.

There were others more cooperative. That was for sure.

There were others more his type.

Were there were others curvier? Absolutely.

There were others taller, stronger, sillier - feistier, even.

Some prettier. Some friendlier - some hotter. Maybe, some more fun.

Somewhere there were probably some more graceful, some more tolerant, some more curious.

Surely there were some with longer legs, easier laughs, quicker wits?

Possibly some more enigmatic.

He couldn't imagine many smarter. Well, actually, he knew a few – but you wouldn't really want to hang with them, if you know what I mean…

More dedicated? No.

More unquestioningly obedient? Certainly.

More fair and honest? No. (He didn't much care to admit that one. But - her assessments were painfully fair, and she was unfailingly honest.)

Few more talented, more loyal, more professional, more self-reliant.

Few more articulate, interesting, mesmerizing.

Few more satisfied, filled with joy.

None more deserving.

More beautiful?

More loving?

More available.

When she awoke and sat up, she would look around to check on him, smile, listen to his words; laugh if he amused her. She would touch his arm to ground him, if she thought he was lost; she would speak quiet words to bolster him.

If necessary, she would cut him down to size – and cut him to the quick.

And the whole time, she would be listening – listening - for something else. Something more.

And something more would call to her.

He looked again at Uhura, this sleeping woman – this amazing woman …

When she awoke she would look around and check on him – but he would not be what her waking eyes were really looking for.

Jim Kirk knew he was guarding something precious. It just wasn't his.


	26. Watching Him Sleep 3

_Watching Him Sleep 3_

She heard hesitant footfalls; felt a hand touch her elbow. Blue eyes sought hers.

She heard the careful question.

Standing by the still, silent sleeper, she willed her voice to say the words she always said.

'I'm fine' shouldn't be this difficult: One little phrase, just two syllables.

She willed her voice to say the words that would wipe away pity, compassion - the understanding in his eyes.

She could not let this man watch her break.

She willed her body to turn, and her chin to lift. She willed her eyes to meet his squarely.

She thought if she could do these things, then maybe she could say the words that would prove she was strong.

Blue eyes found hers.

"Oh, Jim," she said, before his arms closed around her and the first sob came.


	27. Watching Spock Sleep 2

_Watching Spock Sleep_

They were soulmates – destined to be together.

The first time she saw him, she thought it. She had come to believe it; and now, she knew. It didn't matter that he was… different. She has looked into his eyes and seen – behind that mask-like Vulcan face – vulnerability, uncertainty… pain.

Pain was something she knew all too well.

Oh, yes – God, yes - she knew pain.

And it didn't matter to her – not one little bit – that he was Vulcan. That he was Vulcan, and she was not. It didn't matter that people told her it wouldn't – couldn't - work.

She knew better.

She knew that there was a tender soul trapped in silence, deep inside that protective Vulcan shell.

Something about that was intriguing.

Something about that seemed heroic – Just as he was, she thought.

Now, entering Sickbay, she glanced around.

No one noticed her. No one saw.

Good.

This was just for them, this moment – for the two of them, alone.

Just as, she thought, that silent something in his eyes was for her alone; just as all the love that she has is kept in private, just for him – for the two of them, when the moment came, together.

She looked around again. Even Doctor McCoy had left – presumably to dine with the Captain, and the others leaving duty, still, on the Bridge.

That was good, too: She wouldn't have to see the look of disappointment in his eyes; the look of warning if she let her professional mask slip; the look of discomfort - distaste, even – if, following her gaze, his eyes went from her to Spock and back.

No, no need to avoid the eyes of those who might not approve.

Sickbay was deserted. No one would see as she went to his bedside to keep silent watch.

Lifting her chin, looking purposeful, she moved toward the curtains. (Anyone watching, surely, would think she had every right?)

Still, she could not resist one last look around (no one was watching) before slipping in and closing the curtains tight behind her.

The visitor's chair was pulled up close beside his bed, as though waiting for her – as though he had just been waiting for her to come.

She studied the silent still figure on the bed. (He looked peaceful. There was no sign of pain or distress. No guarded look, as he shut the world out…) Pulling the chair a little closer yet, she sank into it. She sank into it, studying Spock's face.

Every time she saw him, she was surprised by his beauty.

A glimpse here, a passing glance there – that was the normal course of the day (yet all the while aware of the so-much-more his eyes could hold). But, still – even after all this time – his beauty was surprising. Now, as he lay on a biobed - eyes shut, absolutely still - she could study him as much as she pleased: To her heart's content.

No need to make an excuse to stand beside him, for a moment, in the lab; to carefully head to lunch that they might accidently meet…

It was rare, even for her, to get to see him asleep.

Now, she could look her fill.

Yes, he looked peaceful. She supposed he was healing.

Eyes shut – face not deliberately composed into that mask-like public face - there was no sign of the pain she knew was never far away. There was no sign of the discomfort she had seen as he had spoken to her of loss. (That, probably, was the moment she had begun to know that they could – would – have future together. Now, of course, she knew of his pain – and that he, in all of his spectacular, strange, alien beauty, was the one man who could understand her. He had tried, in his stiff, formal, awkward way - he had tried to talk to her of loss. She had looked into his eyes and known that pain could be reflected, like a mirror – that it could be seen clearly, and shared.)

There was no hint of that awareness of her nearness that she had seen flare in his eyes - as, looking into them, she had moved just a little closer, and a little closer still. (He had turned his head, as she came up beside him; his eyes had widened – and she knew, then, so much more…)

Yes, they were destined to be together.

She wondered if he knew that.

Leaning forward, she gently slipped her hand under his unresponsive one, felt the heat from his skin - and the sudden unaccustomed weight as, lifting it, she held it in her own.

"Mr. Spock," she said, "Spock, I'm here."

After a moment, she covered that still, motionless, beautiful hand – full of a life now hidden – with her other one. She scooted forward, a little, in her chair, drawing a little closer still – drawing his hand a little closer to her heart…

"I don't know if you can hear me," she said, her voice low, "but I want you to know I'm here."

She leaned even closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm here – for you."

Her eyes raked his face looking for – hoping for – yearning for, even – some response. But there was nothing.

There was no response.

Not a twitch of a brow. (Ah, those famous, iconic eyebrows! They moved – or not – in a face that so often seemed to give away nothing. She looked, and was able to make out individual hairs in what had always seemed like solid black slashes marking a resolute face. (It was strange to see them like this. She had to tear her eyes away.))

Not a flicker of an eyelid. (His skin, this close up, was pale, yes – but with a slight greenish very-much-alive glow beneath the paleness. She could see the delicate tracery of veins in those lids. Oh, there was a hint of color in his cheeks on an ordinary day - but she had never really thought about the source of that golden tint, as it passed beneath the cool blue-white lights of the corridors. (She shivered, just a little, in the over-warm confines of the bay. (But the shiver was oddly pleasurable.)))

Not a single movement of a lip. (His lips were beautiful. Even on an ordinary day they were palest pink, curving upward as though at any moment he might smile – but he never did. They, too, were guarded, and gave away nothing. Now, they were relaxed. She pulled her eyes away from those lips. She could see the faint shadow of whiskers beneath the surface of the pale, pale skin. She wondered whether – if she raised her hand to caress the line of his jaw – they would prickle. (Her hand tightened slightly, on his. No response.) Her eyes strayed back to those beautiful lips. There was none of that watchful tension they always seemed to have: They were relaxed. (Or as relaxed, she supposed, as they ever got…) She felt herself move forward a little in the chair, leaning still closer, and irresistibly closer still… She paused, then, suddenly aware of what she had been about to do. (No, she thought, he must come to her. He _would_ come to her. (Sometime - sometime soon, she hoped – she would see those careful, disciplined lips curl in a smile, just for her… (And maybe she would catch a glimpse of his even, white teeth.))

And she sat back, her hands enclosing his.

Her eyes pored over him - while he lay still, both absent and there.

(There was no response.)

She raised his hand, so that the back of it barely brushed her cheek. It was hot. Closing her eyes, she could catch the scent of his skin - a spicy, hot, masculine scent – and she imagined... before she lowered his hand again to rest in her lap. Covering it, once more, with hers, she caressed it, and felt the fine hairs that sprinkled its back.

She sat for a long time (alone with him in the quiet of a deserted late late-evening Sickbay) watching him, her eyes wandering, exploring – speculating. At last, she lifted his hand again, and placed it gently on the bed beside him. She stood. She had to go.

But first, she leaned over him, once more, her hand still covering his where it rested on the bed. "Spock," she whispered, hopefully, "You can call me 'Christine.'"

There was no response.

(There was no response. (Yet.))


End file.
